


Sober?

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective John Watson, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John suspects something's not quite right with Sherlock - and a quick search of his bedroom confirms John's fears.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 80





	Sober?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [krazyrabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/krazyrabbit/gifts).



“Sherlock?” John shed his jacket as he called up the stairs. He wasn’t sure why he still did that; it was rare Sherlock actually replied. He was either down the stairs before John could speak, dragging him out the door to do something, or he didn’t bother to answer.

It wasn’t even worth rolling his eyes over. John stomped up the stairs, the stillness of 221B telling him it was empty. Not a surprise; Sherlock’s hours lately had been even more erratic than usual. His bed hadn’t been slept in, and John’s stash of biscuits was gone, two facts that sent a skittering shot of unease up John’s spine. He clicked on the kettle, thinking as he pulled the teabags out of the cupboard and checked his mug was passably clean.

The tea was cool enough to drink before he made a decision, and it wasn’t his first choice…but Sherlock’s health had to be the priority, and all the signs pointed in one direction. Drinking his tea in one gulp – he needed it more than usual – John pushed Sherlock’s bedroom door open. The bed was perfectly made, as he’d spied earlier. The same bed John had made up the previous day after stripping both beds, convinced Sherlock hadn’t washed his sheets in long enough, thanks. With a sigh, he started searching. It helped that he knew Sherlock so well; most of the hiding spots were hardly obvious. But the ends of the curtain rods, the loose floorboard, the false book and the hidden pockets in his jackets were empty. John let out a breath of relief, almost not bothering with the space behind the periodic table. In the interest of being thorough he took the frame down; he was moving to replace it almost before he’d actually looked.

He froze.

Granted, prescription meds weren’t Sherlock’s usual drug of choice; John would have been less surprised to find street drugs of questionable quality. But the cavity was filled with prescription bottles, made out to a dozen different names. John didn’t touch them – he didn’t want his fingerprints on any of the bottles – but he stared for what felt like an hour before carefully replacing the picture.

Well, that explained a lot. Heart beating fast, John picked up his phone and called Mycroft.

“John,” he answered, voice calm as usual.

“Sherlock’s using again,” John said without preamble.

Mycroft was silent for almost five seconds before he spoke, voice emotionless. “I’ll see if I can pick him up.”

John nodded and hung up. Restless, he filled the sink with dishes, determined to have at least one part of this flat clean enough for other people to enter without risk of serious illness.

+++

John had just sat down with another cup of tea – but no biscuits – when Sherlock arrived. He looked terrible, John thought. Unshaven, his coat gaping open to show a torso definitely thinner than John remembered. A pang of guilt went through him. He shouldn’t have been taking those extra shifts. He should have been home to keep an eye on Sherlock. To hassle Lestrade for some cold cases, if Sherlock was feeling restless.

“Hi,” John said.

Sherlock started, as though he hadn’t even noticed John sitting in his chair.

“John,” he said, the response taking just a beat too long to be quite sober.

John’s heart sank. For all the evidence in front of him, he’d hoped there was another explanation, but Sherlock looked strung out. There was no other explanation for it.

“Sherlock,” he began, but Sherlock held up one hand. It shook, John noticed.

“John,” he said, voice deeper and slower than usual. “I need to lie down.”

“Sherlock,” John said more insistently.

“I am going to bed,” Sherlock said. The effort it took to shape the words was clear. “I will remain in the flat until we have spoken. But not for at least twelve hours. Please.”

It was the please that tipped John over into helplessness. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded, disappearing into his bedroom. Five minutes later, the door downstairs opened and closed, and John almost stood up until he recognised the step on the stairs.

“He’s here,” John said when Mycroft stepped into the flat.

“Sober?” Mycroft asked.

“No,” John replied flatly.

Mycroft nodded, and it was only here, in person, that John could see the sadness in his eyes at this news about his brother.

“He said he’s going to sleep but he’ll be here in the morning. To talk to me.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow but didn’t speak.

“I’m going to stay here,” John said, indicating his chair. “Until he comes out.”

Mycroft thought for a moment before offering, “Perhaps a night’s sleep would be more beneficial. I can have someone wait here overnight.”

John looked at him. This was his way of caring, John had understood for a long time. “Okay,” he said finally.

Mycroft made a phone call. When he clicked his phone shut, he said almost as an afterthought, “Someone will be here shortly. Please call me when Sherlock wakes.”

“Sure,” John said.

Mycroft left without another word, and John sighed. He’d hoped they might be past this. The prescription drugs were something he hadn’t anticipated; automatically his mind went to ways he could curtail this. Mycroft would be helpful, of course. John had learned to just tell him what was needed and Mycroft would make it happen. It was easier than doing it himself, and over the months John had learned that despite appearances Mycroft actually would move heaven and earth to help his brother.

When the minder arrived, John directed him to the kettle, told him there were no biscuits and retired to bed. Despite the stress, he was asleep within minutes. It was one of the benefits of his time as an Army doctor.

+++

John woke at 6am, rolling out of bed before he even knew what he was doing. There was an argument from downstairs. Well, Sherlock was yelling at someone. The previous evening rushed back, and John called Mycroft immediately.

“He’s up,” he said, closing his phone before there was even a response. He was still dressed from the previous evening, so ten seconds later he’d clattered down the stairs and was standing between Sherlock and the minder. Sherlock looked indignant, sitting in his chair as directed by John; the minder looked bored, though there was a readiness behind it that told John he could certainly take care of himself.

“Mycroft is on his way,” John said to the room in general. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t try and stand, and the minder nodded. John crossed his arms, shifting so he could see both men, and remained standing until Mycroft arrived.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, the words enough to dismiss the minder, who walked out without another word. “Brother. John. Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked rudely.

John looked at him properly for the first time. He looked far better rested, though he still hadn’t shaved and from the smell, showered in several days. His eyes were less bloodshot, but John knew Sherlock had supremely strong self-control and could probably will himself not to show symptoms of withdrawal if he wanted to.

“John invited me,” Mycroft said.

“I found your stash,” John said without preamble. “Prescription meds this time, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked genuinely startled, John registered; his acting had improved since they’d last danced this dance.

“I’m not sure you’ll have your choice of rehab clinics this time, Sherlock. It’s a busy time of year.”

Sherlock’s expression had shifted from startled to understanding to…disappointment? John blinked at him as he relaxed back into his chair, looking for all the world like he was watching some amusing pantomime.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, the smug tone in his voice almost unbearable. “I assume you had a reason for searching my room?”

John nodded. He almost listed the things he’d noticed, but decided it was easier to say, “I know you, Sherlock. You’ve been different lately.”

“‘Different’?” Sherlock repeated. “And that’s enough, is it?”

“Yes,” John and Mycroft said together.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Sherlock murmured. “Should I ever be addicted to prescription medication.”

John frowned. “What?”

“I presume you have a specimen jar somewhere on you,” Sherlock addressed his brother. Mycroft didn’t speak, but reached into his inner pocket, producing the aforementioned jar and tossing it to Sherlock. When Sherlock stood up and moved towards the bathroom, John stepped in the way, blocking him. A single raised eyebrow and Sherlock sighed theatrically.

Nobody spoke as they all watched Sherlock fill the specimen jar. When he was done he looked at John, his expression somehow sad. “Hopefully that’s proof enough,” he said dryly.

John nodded, speechless. Sherlock had never voluntarily offered any kind of specimen before. He glanced at Mycroft, who was frowning at his brother, looking at him intently.

The room was very still for a while, Sherlock meeting Mycroft’s eyes, the smirk around his mouth challenging him.

“Ah,” Mycroft said finally. He visibly relaxed, nodding approvingly at Sherlock. “Perhaps you should tell John,” he said with a smile. “To avoid confusion in the future.”

“Tell John?” John said. “Tell John what?”

“Good morning,” Mycroft said, not bothering to take the full specimen jar with him.

“Sherlock?” John said, turning to him for an explanation. He was confused, but some of his anxiety had eased. If Mycroft was convinced enough to leave, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought, but still, John had no idea what was going on.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Really, John?”

“Yes,” John said.

“You’ve noticed…let’s see, I’ve been keeping odd hours, bloodshot eyes, bed not slept in, tired, and there’s a dozen or so prescription drug bottles in my bedroom,” Sherlock said.

“And you’ve lost weight, your hands are shaking and you haven’t taken a new case in weeks,” John added. He thought he saw Sherlock’s expression shift briefly into impressed but he could have been wrong.

“And you’ve taken these facts and determined that I’m taking prescription drugs,” Sherlock concluded.

“Yes,” John said. “I’ve worked with addicts, Sherlock, I know what to look-”

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock said firmly.

John raised an eyebrow.

“Mycroft left,” Sherlock pointed out. “We both know he wouldn’t have left if he didn’t believe me.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to tell me,” John said. “Just tell me what’s going on, Sherlock.”

The detective sighed again, and the look he threw at John was apprehensive. “Fine.” He took a deep breath. “I’m keeping the drugs safe. For my homeless network.”

“For your homeless network,” John repeated.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as though that should be enough.

“Let’s just assume I need more explanation that that,” John said, crossing his arms.

“I’m running a substance abuse support group for the homeless network,” Sherlock said.

John took a few minutes to process this. “Right,” he said cautiously.

“So part of that is managing their drug use,” Sherlock said. “I keep their prescriptions, give them enough to get by so they can wean themselves off it.”

“Right,” John said. He could see a lot of problems with this plan, but he held his tongue.

“They know I’ll pay well for information,” Sherlock said. “And only if they’re sober.” He shrugged. “Some don’t stay, some come and go…but as you know, the first step is admitting they have a problem. So if they want the help,” he shrugged again, “I’m there.”

“Paying for information,” John repeated. “But you’re not working any cases.”

Sherlock shrugged, his pale skin flushing as he admitted, “They don’t know that.”

John felt his mouth drop open. “So you’re paying for information you don’t need, partly to keep them sober,” he said. “And you’re in charge of their legitimate medication.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, as though it should be obvious.

“Okay,” John said. He frowned. “What has Lestrade said about this?”

Sherlock shrugged again. “He hasn’t had anything interesting – but if he does, my homeless network is vastly expanded now. So I can find out just about anything now.”

John opened his mouth again, then closed it. “Okay,” he said simply. God only knew if this would work, and he hardly thought it was entirely selfless – the expanded, sober network was probably Sherlock’s ultimate goal – but it made sense. And if Mycroft believed it, John could too.

“Yes, thanks,” Sherlock said, sinking into his chair.

“What?” John said.

“Tea, John.”

“Right,” John said automatically. Now that was a conversation he understood.

**Author's Note:**

> John thinks Sherlock has fallen off the wagon but discovers that he has secretly been running a local substance support group for his homeless network.


End file.
